The minute I woke up this morning and started to leave the bed, I heard a voice:
"What are you doing???"
"Well, after some coffee, I thought I'd go out and try to train..." I replied with a certain hesitation.
"My God, you must be mad! There is no better excuse than fibromyalgia for staying in a prone position!"
By this time, I realized the voice was my body, trying to get me to lie down again, or at least to watch the news on television. It was touch and go there for about half an hour as my body pulled in one direction and my weakened determination in another, but since the training routine for today was an easy one (ten minutes running, five walking, repeated twice), my flabby determination won out, but just barely.
By this time it was seven o'clock and the park was packed to the rafters. But off I went, cutting off a whole minute from my one kilometer time. Big deal. Nine minutes instead of ten! I'm still going to win the bet with Adrián.
It seemed to me like there was a weird crew out this morning. There were some very, very old men, considerably overweight, who looked like they really shouldn't be out in this heat. There was an old gal who looked at me with the most horrific scowl, as if she might be furious with me for being there; on the other hand, she looked at everyone that way. There was a guy I recognized from a few years ago; he had become incensed because I was walking my dogs and said I couldn't take them to the park because they would poop on the path. When I tried to explain that my dogs were trained only to poop in their own back yard or on grass, he would not even listen. I told him he needed a dermatologist, a barber, and a shrink, and I left him fuming while I continued my walk. He must not have recognized me today because he smiled, but I looked at him as if seeing a cockroach on a cake. He probably went home and told his wife that there was a really weird bunch of runners out this morning.
These are the days that I feel best about, because they are so hard. Every fiber of me wanted to do absolutely nothing, but as I managed to find a groove during the first ten minutes of my run, I realized I might manage to make it through. The second ten minutes were uphill even on the flat, perhaps because I had my long distance glasses on and misread my watch, adding an extra ten minutes to my run before I realized my mistake just in time not to actually run them. There is no way I am going to enter some race at this point, however...
viernes, 27 de mayo de 2011
jueves, 26 de mayo de 2011
Cross-training fall-out...
Impossible today to finish the whole training schedule! After riding for over an hour yesterday, training my horse and myself, today I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a train. Tomorrow's activity is more feasible. But to my horror, Adrián is trying to get me to enter a 5K that is coming up, trotting 3K and walking 2. I told him I would surely make a colossal fool of myself, but he is going to become insistent, and since he is the trainer, I may wind up doing this. You know how it is these days: You can't make a single false move without winding up on YouTube, so whatever happens, if I enter the race I will have to concentrate on not crashing and burning, or having my sports bra explode, or undergoing a shoe blow-out.
God, with any luck the race takes place when I'm in Austin and I won't be able to enter! Yeah, yeah, lily-livered me!
God, with any luck the race takes place when I'm in Austin and I won't be able to enter! Yeah, yeah, lily-livered me!
miércoles, 25 de mayo de 2011
This is Bandolero....
He is a Lusitano, the Portuguese version of the Andalusian horse. His name, which means "bandit", is because he assaulted my heart and my pocketbook with one fell swoop. He is my cross training!
martes, 24 de mayo de 2011
The Comeback
Finally after seeing a ENT doctor, my dizziness is being treated and I hit the park this morning--along with the rest of Adrián's team which had survived the Houston triathlon. These things are superhuman. Can you imagine being in constant movement (swimming, biking, and running) for 10 hours?? The mind, once again, boggles.
It was not on my schedule today, but it was a psychological necessity to run the distance I had been doing before the inner ear problem; the shock was that Adrián informed me the distance is four kilometers, not three as I had thought! Four K!! Okay, okay, it took about ten minutes a kilometer, but hey!! Who cares? Five K is just a stone's throw away, and then I can work on time. I'm still going to win the bet, and Adrián is beginning to look worried at the idea of having to pay me a cake. Ha!
Once more, a comeback.
It was not on my schedule today, but it was a psychological necessity to run the distance I had been doing before the inner ear problem; the shock was that Adrián informed me the distance is four kilometers, not three as I had thought! Four K!! Okay, okay, it took about ten minutes a kilometer, but hey!! Who cares? Five K is just a stone's throw away, and then I can work on time. I'm still going to win the bet, and Adrián is beginning to look worried at the idea of having to pay me a cake. Ha!
Once more, a comeback.
domingo, 22 de mayo de 2011
The Fine Print
Yesterday the running park was practically empty, either because there is a big event this weekend in Houston, or because the world ended yesterday while I was busy with something else. Surely the non-end-of-the-world is one of those "Is my face red!!??" moments for the whacky few who divested themselves of their wordly belongings in preparation for the big happening.
They really put out an effort to convince the rest of us, too, in one of those very common human foibles that makes us want to talk others into sharing our idiocy so that we can be confirmed in the truth of our beliefs. People like this can be danged pests; it's the matched pair of Seventh Day Adventists who ring your doorbell while you are trying to make lunch, or the matched pair of nuns from the church down the street who assume you are a Catholic and are pushing their way into your house to ask for a donation while you are trying to catch your cat, who has brought a dead bird into the living room. It's the matched pair of lady volunteers at your local hospital who come into your room to shower you with tiny cards showing the Virgin Mary or which contain prayers, making you wonder if your surgery went a lot worse than anyone is telling you. Some of these people are trying to do you good, but they seem to lack that part of the brain that would permit them to ask you what you want instead of imposing unbidden.
The most recent whackos stated that the Bible "guaranteed" the the world was going to end yesterday. You know how it is with guarantees: There is that fine print at the end of the page that conditions the guarantee, stating that if you misuse the product, fling it about, or stomp on it, the manufacturer will kick you out the door if you try to get your money back. Perhaps all religious-based writings should come with that warning, because if there is anything flung about, stomped on and misused, religion is it.
The most fun I've had with Seventh Day Adventists--although they may have been Mormons, now that I think about it, because the Mormons have just built a singularly uninspired, huge church not far from here--was one day as I was arriving from the store and unloading my sacks of groceries. Two matched pairs of good-news-ers wanted to give me some literature, and one of them (a gringo, no less) asked if I spoke English. They congregated around, all set to save my soul, and were about to be a major pain in the butt until in a moment of inspiration I announced that I was an atheist. It's as if the devil had popped up out of the sidewalk--they hotfooted it off down the street double time, much to my relief.
As I trotted down the running path (doing a bare minimum because of what now turns out to be a middle ear inflammation), running over in my mind the vicissitudes suffered by the people who from one band or another throughout history have claimed to be chosen by God, then I hope to remain a part of the unwashed masses who aren't chosen, by dang. And if heaven is populated by some of the characters who claim to be keepers of the Truth, who the heck needs hell?
They really put out an effort to convince the rest of us, too, in one of those very common human foibles that makes us want to talk others into sharing our idiocy so that we can be confirmed in the truth of our beliefs. People like this can be danged pests; it's the matched pair of Seventh Day Adventists who ring your doorbell while you are trying to make lunch, or the matched pair of nuns from the church down the street who assume you are a Catholic and are pushing their way into your house to ask for a donation while you are trying to catch your cat, who has brought a dead bird into the living room. It's the matched pair of lady volunteers at your local hospital who come into your room to shower you with tiny cards showing the Virgin Mary or which contain prayers, making you wonder if your surgery went a lot worse than anyone is telling you. Some of these people are trying to do you good, but they seem to lack that part of the brain that would permit them to ask you what you want instead of imposing unbidden.
The most recent whackos stated that the Bible "guaranteed" the the world was going to end yesterday. You know how it is with guarantees: There is that fine print at the end of the page that conditions the guarantee, stating that if you misuse the product, fling it about, or stomp on it, the manufacturer will kick you out the door if you try to get your money back. Perhaps all religious-based writings should come with that warning, because if there is anything flung about, stomped on and misused, religion is it.
The most fun I've had with Seventh Day Adventists--although they may have been Mormons, now that I think about it, because the Mormons have just built a singularly uninspired, huge church not far from here--was one day as I was arriving from the store and unloading my sacks of groceries. Two matched pairs of good-news-ers wanted to give me some literature, and one of them (a gringo, no less) asked if I spoke English. They congregated around, all set to save my soul, and were about to be a major pain in the butt until in a moment of inspiration I announced that I was an atheist. It's as if the devil had popped up out of the sidewalk--they hotfooted it off down the street double time, much to my relief.
As I trotted down the running path (doing a bare minimum because of what now turns out to be a middle ear inflammation), running over in my mind the vicissitudes suffered by the people who from one band or another throughout history have claimed to be chosen by God, then I hope to remain a part of the unwashed masses who aren't chosen, by dang. And if heaven is populated by some of the characters who claim to be keepers of the Truth, who the heck needs hell?
jueves, 19 de mayo de 2011
The proverbial dog, sick...
Why do dogs have such a reputation for being sick? That's how upset my stomach is right now, and with this enforced day of time-off from the running path, philosophical matters can be attended to. It could be that the proverbial dog is what you are as sick as (how's that for tortured syntax?) because dogs can vomit at will--or as my mother pointed out one time, they can also vomit at Joe or Bubba. But dogs can't compare with a cat upchucking a hairball or something it ate which it shouldn't have--one of our cats, right after we moved from Mexico City to northern Mexico, was overly excited by the presence of cockroaches, something he had never seen before, and he downed quite a few. Now, that's sick! Nothing a dog could bring up holds a candle to a gutfull of partially digested roaches!
Another burning issue which after my 43 years in Mexico no one has been able to clarify: How could anyone in this country be constipated? It's like being constipated in, say, India. The mind can't get around it. Apparently I'm the only woman in the country who isn't, in fact. I've been tempted to ask these women if they have ever eaten the food here or drunk the water. Let me put it this way: There are desserts made with chile peppers, such as mango ice with chipotle (delish!). The range of chiles is endless, from the mildest to the nuclear chile habanero, yet with all the spices and fiber in the Mexican diet, most women seem to be constipated. One might suspect that the lining of the stomach and intestines has been evaporated by all these chiles and said organs have come to a halt. Some of the remedies are extremely tasty, in fact, and for that alone are worth the effort--nopalitos in salads and tamarind drinks, for example--healthful and vitamin-packed. But if I ate like that every day, I'd be like the tourist on a flight I took one time--he had to be strapped onto the toilet during the entire flight because there was no way he could sit anywhere else for more than 30 to 40 seconds. Now that, I can identify with.
Another burning issue which after my 43 years in Mexico no one has been able to clarify: How could anyone in this country be constipated? It's like being constipated in, say, India. The mind can't get around it. Apparently I'm the only woman in the country who isn't, in fact. I've been tempted to ask these women if they have ever eaten the food here or drunk the water. Let me put it this way: There are desserts made with chile peppers, such as mango ice with chipotle (delish!). The range of chiles is endless, from the mildest to the nuclear chile habanero, yet with all the spices and fiber in the Mexican diet, most women seem to be constipated. One might suspect that the lining of the stomach and intestines has been evaporated by all these chiles and said organs have come to a halt. Some of the remedies are extremely tasty, in fact, and for that alone are worth the effort--nopalitos in salads and tamarind drinks, for example--healthful and vitamin-packed. But if I ate like that every day, I'd be like the tourist on a flight I took one time--he had to be strapped onto the toilet during the entire flight because there was no way he could sit anywhere else for more than 30 to 40 seconds. Now that, I can identify with.
miércoles, 18 de mayo de 2011
Fortunately, I'm not blond.....
Since last Saturday, I've been under the weather with a mild stomach upset, a mild headache, and just enough dizziness to make life fairly pesky. Typical fibromyalgia sindrome. Yesterday, however, a plan was set afoot to collect a donation from those of us who volunteer some funds in order to surprise Adrián this weekend because Teacher's Day is coming up. (Mexico never misses a chance to party, by God! You'll have to read Octavio Paz in order to understand why.)
So in spite of my condition, weaving like a drunkard, I made my way to the park early in the morning. I stealthily handed off my donation to Ana, the one in charge of the surprise, said hello to my fellow trainees, and then thought, what the haitch, I'm here so let's trot a bit. You'll realize we are now brushing up against the skirts of fanaticism when the sick, the lame, and the halt drag themselves to the running path in order not to miss out on a training session.
My warm-up walk was somewhat uneven since I had a bit of trouble sticking to my lane; it crossed my mind to rejoice in my non-blond hair since I couldn't be accused of being a dizzy blond, although several people may have wondered if I was, in fact, a drunken grey-headed old gal who had partied all night and was still feeling the effects. Oh God, if only such carousing were possible! It was, however, quite true that I had been up all night feeling the effects, but these latter belonged to an anti-dizziness medication that contained enough caffeine to wire a cast of thousands.
By this time you may be asking yourself if the medication also destroyed neurons by the millions. Well, let me just tell you that it doesn't matter, because in that state I managed a 3.4K run without stopping so much as to tie a shoelace or rescue fallen glasses, and even ended with a small but significant (for me) sprint. You know how training seems to progess by a series of plateaus; I am now past the eight-minutes-of-this, two-minutes-of-that stage and am aiming for a very, very slow 5K now.
I can see now the newspapers that will appear next February: "All categories of Austin 5K taken by old lady expat living in Mexico; drug testing reveals humongous quatities of caffeine. Fight breaks out at finish line as victor's Asics are stolen by infuriated younger contenders who demand that shoes also undergo drug testing."
So in spite of my condition, weaving like a drunkard, I made my way to the park early in the morning. I stealthily handed off my donation to Ana, the one in charge of the surprise, said hello to my fellow trainees, and then thought, what the haitch, I'm here so let's trot a bit. You'll realize we are now brushing up against the skirts of fanaticism when the sick, the lame, and the halt drag themselves to the running path in order not to miss out on a training session.
My warm-up walk was somewhat uneven since I had a bit of trouble sticking to my lane; it crossed my mind to rejoice in my non-blond hair since I couldn't be accused of being a dizzy blond, although several people may have wondered if I was, in fact, a drunken grey-headed old gal who had partied all night and was still feeling the effects. Oh God, if only such carousing were possible! It was, however, quite true that I had been up all night feeling the effects, but these latter belonged to an anti-dizziness medication that contained enough caffeine to wire a cast of thousands.
By this time you may be asking yourself if the medication also destroyed neurons by the millions. Well, let me just tell you that it doesn't matter, because in that state I managed a 3.4K run without stopping so much as to tie a shoelace or rescue fallen glasses, and even ended with a small but significant (for me) sprint. You know how training seems to progess by a series of plateaus; I am now past the eight-minutes-of-this, two-minutes-of-that stage and am aiming for a very, very slow 5K now.
I can see now the newspapers that will appear next February: "All categories of Austin 5K taken by old lady expat living in Mexico; drug testing reveals humongous quatities of caffeine. Fight breaks out at finish line as victor's Asics are stolen by infuriated younger contenders who demand that shoes also undergo drug testing."
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